A Lady for Lord Randall

by Sarah Mallory

  ‘What the devil is this animal doing here?’

  ‘That’s Dog, our new mascot, Colonel,’ said one of the men cheerfully. ‘Major Flint found ’im. He didn’t seem to have no home so the major adopted him, so to speak.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The earl gazed down at the dog, who responded by putting back his ears and hanging out his tongue as he gazed up, hopeful of a soft word. He received only Randall’s hand resting briefly on his shaggy black head. ‘Very well. Make sure he doesn’t get in the way.’

  ‘Here comes Major Flint now, Colonel.’

  The soldier’s words were drowned out by the dog’s ecstatic yelping as an officer came towards them. He was walking casually, as if in no hurry to meet his commanding officer. Mary’s first thought was that he was as shaggy as the mascot. Her second, when he came up to the earl, was how alike they were.

  His hair was a darker brown than Randall’s and longer, but they were much the same height and build, and when he stood face-to-face with his colonel their profiles were strikingly similar. They spoke for some minutes before Randall came striding back to the carriage. Mary quickly sat back as the earl climbed in.

  They began to move and when he made no attempt to speak she asked, as carelessly as she could, ‘Is Major Flint a relative of yours, my lord?’

  She did not miss the tightening of his jaw, the slight hesitation before he replied.

  ‘He is my half-brother.’

  ‘Ah, one of the...er...by-blows you mentioned.’

  ‘Yes.’

  His terse response suggested she should not say any more, but she was curious.

  ‘You said there is no room for sentiment, my lord, so I take it Major Flint is a good officer?’

  ‘Let us say I would rather have him on my side than against me.’ When he found she was watching him he added impatiently, ‘There is no love lost between us, madam, so pray do not be thinking there is any family feeling involved. Flint is just one of many bastards my father sired. He could not keep his hands off any woman, be it lady or laundry maid.’

  ‘A typical nobleman, then.’

  He turned to her, more haughty and aristocratic than ever, but at least his anger put to flight the bitter, brooding look.

  ‘No, madam, not a typical nobleman.’

  She met his furious gaze with a bland smile.

  ‘I think it best to judge people as I find them rather than make assumptions, do not you, sir?’

  For a moment she thought he might respond with a withering retort, then she saw his lips twitch.

  ‘Is that aimed at me, because I made, er, assumptions about you?’

  ‘If the cap fits, my lord.’

  She heard him make a sound that was something between a curse and a growl.

  ‘How you have come this far without being strangled, madam—’

  She laughed at that.

  ‘Never mind, Lord Randall. Another hour and you will be rid of me.’

  * * *

  It was late afternoon by the time they reached Brussels. As soon as the carriage drew up outside the schoolhouse Lord Randall jumped down to hand Mary out.

  ‘Impressive,’ he remarked, looking at the large building, set back a little from the street.

  ‘Thank you. I am very proud of my school.’

  ‘Do your pupils board here, too?’

  ‘Most of them, although we do have a few day pupils, too.’ She hesitated. ‘I would invite you to take some refreshment with me, but...’

  ‘Yes. I must find my own lodgings, then get back to Roosbos as soon as possible.’

  Mary nodded.

  ‘Goodbye, Lord Randall. And thank you.’

  She held out her hand and he bowed over it, all very correct. He did not even squeeze her fingers before he released them and jumped back into the coach. She stood for a moment, watching the dusty equipage bowling away along the Rue Haute.

  It was done, over. He was gone and there was no reason for them to meet again. She had no links with the military in Brussels and did not mix with the English families who had taken up residence in the city. They might send their daughters to her school, but they would not consider her their equal. Her social circle would be very different from the earl’s.

  No, she thought, straightening her shoulders, she would not see him again.

  * * *

  Randall sank back against the squabs and closed his eyes. It was over. He had done his duty and delivered Miss Endacott to her home and now he need never see the infuriating woman again. By the time the coach rolled up to his quarters in the Rue Ducale his attention was wholly given over to military affairs. There were several messages waiting for him, including one from Wellington that would have to be answered before he could return to Roosbos. He gave himself up to the life he knew best, that of a soldier, a commanding officer.

  * * *

  It was not until he retired to his bed that Randall thought of Mary Endacott and even then it was not through choice. He could not get the damned woman out of his mind. Tired as he was, as soon as he closed his eyes it was her image he saw, the shy smile lurking in her green eyes, the little tilt to her head when she was puzzled. Try as he might he could not banish it, and when at last sleep claimed him, his wayward dreams relived that shockingly rousing kiss they had shared. She trembled in his arms, leaned against him, returned his kiss just as she had done in the gardens at Somervil, but in his dreams it did not end there. In his dreams their kisses grew even more passionate and he lifted her into his arms, intent upon taking her to his bed, but as he swept her up she faded, vanished and he was left with nothing but an intolerable, aching regret.

  * * *

  Randall stirred in his bed. The first grey fingers of dawn were creeping into his room. He covered his eyes with one hand, aware of the vague dissatisfaction of an unfulfilled dream. With a groan he threw back the covers and swung himself off the bed. There was much to be done. Work would prevent him thinking of Mary Endacott. He had never yet allowed a woman to distract him from his duties. But throughout the morning Mary’s image haunted him. When he left Wellington’s quarters on the Rue Montagne du Parc a woman’s laugh rang out. He looked around, expecting to see Mary and finding only a stranger.

  ‘This is madness,’ he told himself, hurrying away. ‘I have a duty to my troop, to my country. I have no time for such distractions.’

  But without quite knowing how, he found himself heading for the Rue Haute.

  * * *

  Mary’s homecoming was greeted with pleasure by her staff. The school had run quite smoothly while she had been away, but some of the administration had had to wait for her return and there was plenty to be done, which helped to occupy her mind. She happily threw herself back into life at the school, but nevertheless, when Jacques, her manservant, came into the classroom late the following afternoon to tell her she had a visitor, she was more than a little disappointed when it was not the earl she found waiting in the little sitting room that doubled as her office.

  ‘Bertrand, this is a surprise. How do you do?’

  Dr Lebbeke bowed and held out a large bouquet of spring flowers to her.

  ‘Very well, Mademoiselle Mary, I thank you. I knew you were expected home in the next few days and called to leave these to welcome your return.’

  ‘How delightful, thank you.’ She rang the bell and sent for a vase and water to be fetched immediately.

  ‘You made good time,’ he observed, handing her the flowers.

  ‘I set off a day earlier than I had originally intended.’

  She wondered whether to tell him the reason for it, but her maid came in at that moment and she let it go.

  ‘These are very beautiful, Bertrand, it was so kind of you to think of me.’

  He stepped closer to the table where she was arr
anging the flowers in a blue and white vase.

  ‘It is my pleasure, Mademoiselle Mary. Did you miss your friends in Brussels? I might hope that was the reason you hurried your return.’

  His meaning was as clear as the ardent glow in his dark eyes. Bertrand Lebbeke had become a good friend to her over the last year and she knew he would like to be even more than that, but although he was good company and not unattractive, something had held her back from encouraging him. After meeting Lord Randall she knew now what was missing. She felt no spark, no attraction for him. Stifling a sigh, she moved away, wondering how best to respond.

  ‘Bertrand, I—’

  ‘Milord Randall, mademoiselle.’

  Mary jumped as Jacques made the announcement and she felt the telltale blush rising to her cheeks.

  ‘Lord Randall, good morning to you.’

  She could manage no more. Her throat dried as he strode in, severely impressive in his dark blue uniform. He looked particularly forbidding as his eyes swept around the room and came to rest upon Bertrand. Mary coughed to clear whatever it was that blocked her throat.

  ‘Do you know Dr Lebbeke, my lord? He is an invaluable support to me whenever there is illness in the school.’

  ‘No, we have not met.’ The earl inclined his head slightly in brief acknowledgement of the doctor before he placed his hat and gloves on the table. ‘Since I only arrived in Brussels yesterday that is not surprising.’

  ‘No indeed,’ agreed Bertrand pleasantly, returning his bow.

  ‘I came merely to see how you go on,’ Lord Randall addressed himself to Mary. ‘To ascertain that you were not too fatigued by the journey yesterday.’

  Bertrand’s dark brows went up and Mary hurried to explain.

  ‘Lord Randall was kind enough to bring me from England in his own carriage. We met by chance in Sussex where I was staying with my cousins, the Bentincks. I was at school with his sister, you see.’

  Be quiet, Mary, you sound quite hen-witted.

  She knew she was gabbling and closed her lips firmly upon any further inane utterances, but her explanation appeared to satisfy Bertrand, who turned back to address the earl.

  ‘You are with the Allied forces, my lord?’

  ‘Yes. Artillery. And you are a doctor? I fear we may need your services in the coming months, although I wish it were not so.’

  ‘I shall be ready,’ Bertrand answered. ‘I have some knowledge of war injuries. I was for ten years ship’s surgeon with the French navy, until Bonaparte’s abdication. I hope you will not hold that against me?’

  ‘Your calling is to save lives, Bertrand, is it not?’ said Mary quietly.

  ‘It is, Mademoiselle Mary.’ Bertrand smiled at her. ‘Regardless of nationality.’

  Mary returned his smile, aware that Randall’s countenance had become even more stony. He walked to the window and stood there, silently staring out. It was like being in a room with two dogs who would start snarling at one another any moment.

  She said quickly, ‘Will you not sit down, sirs? I was about to send for refreshments.’

  ‘Mais non, merci,’ said Bertrand. ‘You are very kind, but I have the appointment that will not wait and must take my leave.’ He saluted her fingers, bowed to Lord Randall and was gone.

  ‘Full of Gallic charm,’ remarked the earl drily.

  ‘He is from Flanders, my lord, he is not French.’

  ‘That is not my concern. What is he to you?’

  She blinked, and was tempted to throw his words back at him, to tell him it was not his concern.

  ‘A friend.’ She sounded a little too defiant and tried to soften her tone as she continued. ‘Pray sit down, my lord, and I will ring—’

  ‘No, do not trouble yourself, I cannot stay. I am to dine tonight at the Hôtel de la Paix with the other artillery officers.’

  ‘Then I thank you for taking the trouble to call.’

  ‘It was nothing. I should like to call again.’

  It sounded very much like an order. Common sense told her to prevaricate. She had plenty of excuses, she was very busy, it would not be seemly—

  ‘I should like that.’

  You are playing with fire, my girl.

  She knew it, but it was too late to retract. Or was it? She wondered for a moment if Randall had heard her, for he made no sign. Then he nodded.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He moved towards the door, and as he collected his hat and gloves from the table he reached out and flicked one of the colourful blooms that Bertrand had brought for her.

  ‘This is not my way, Mary,’ he said. ‘I have no charming manners; you will get no false compliments from me. I will not bring you flowers. It is best you know that, from the start.’

  He gave her a curt nod and was gone.

  Mary blinked. The start of what?

  She shivered and crossed her arms, as if to ward off a sudden chill. She should never have invited him to call again. He would undoubtedly think it signified she was ready to accept a carte blanche. It meant nothing of the sort, of course, as any gentleman should know. But Randall was not a gentleman. He was an earl.

  With a sigh Mary dropped her head in her hands. Could she blame him for thinking she would welcome his attentions? He had misjudged her from the start and her innate honesty compelled her to admit that it was not entirely his fault. She had teased him, led him to believe she was far more worldly-wise than was proper for a single lady. She had conversed with him more freely and openly than was proper, too, but for some inscrutable reason she found him so easy to talk to. She sighed. If that was the case then it should be a simple matter to write to him and explain that she had changed her mind, that it would be best if he did not call.

  No, it would be easier to hold her hand in the candle’s flame than to tell him they must not meet again. Mary closed her eyes—dear heaven, had she learned nothing from her sister’s experience? Poor, deluded, heartbroken Jane, who had trusted a nobleman and paid the ultimate price.

  She hugged herself even tighter, then, taking a long, resolute breath, she straightened and drew herself up. She would give orders that if Lord Randall should call he was not to be admitted. A clean break. Mary turned and walked back to her desk. It would not take long for them both to forget that they had ever met.

  * * *

  ‘Your pardon, milord. Mademoiselle Endacott is not at home.’

  The manservant’s English accent was well-nigh impeccable, but that was not surprising, thought Randall bitterly, since the fellow had repeated the phrase to him several times. It was the third call he had made in as many days and each time the response was the same.

  ‘Do you wish to leave your card, milord?’

  ‘No, not this time.’ Randall stepped back from the door. ‘I shall not call again.’

  He walked away. Mary was avoiding him; he could not blind himself to the truth any longer. Indeed, he was not even sure why he had called so often. What had he hoped to achieve by pursuing the acquaintance of a woman who was too respectable to be his mistress and to whom he could offer nothing else? It was strange, but he was continually drawn back to the Rue Haute, as if Mary was a siren, calling to him.

  That was ridiculous, of course. She was a respectable lady, even if he had at first misread the signals. But he had not misread the look in her eyes. There was a connection between them, tangible as a cord. She wanted him quite as much as he desired her, he would stake his life on it, yet he knew how the world would judge her if she succumbed to his advances. She needed to maintain her reputation if her school was to continue. He could neither bed her nor wed her, so why had he called at the schoolhouse?

  The question haunted him and he was not sure of the answer. He wanted to see her again, to talk to her, argue with her. To hear her laugh.

 
‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together, man,’ he muttered as he made his way back to the Rue Ducale. ‘She’s a woman you met barely two weeks ago. Surely you can forget her, especially now, when there is so much to be done.’

  * * *

  But as he went about his business over the next few days, he found himself thinking of her in the quiet moments, wanting to tell her about his troop, to share with her the frustrations of his day as well as the comic moments, such as how the unkempt and decidedly shaggy stray that had attached itself to the company had come to be known as Bennington Dog. One of the men had let slip that the animal was named after the preposterous Colonel Bennington Ffog, laughing stock of Brussels, with his foppish moustache and breeches so tight he couldn’t get them on without greasing his legs.

  It had been as much as Randall could do to keep a straight face when the story had come to him, but it would not do to show disrespect to a fellow officer, especially when that officer was in command of his brother Gideon’s cavalry regiment. But he could have told Mary. She would appreciate it and perhaps her eyes would shine with that mischievous twinkle he had surprised there upon occasion. He could share such moments and trust her to keep his confidence. Not that he would ever need to do so now. She had shown all too clearly that their acquaintance was at an end.

  Chapter Five

  ‘You are very quiet today, Mademoiselle Mary.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Mary smiled up at her companion. ‘Did you say something, Bertrand?’

  They were walking in the park, but every time she saw an officer in blue uniform she was reminded of Randall, and could not stop herself wondering about him, what he was doing, if he was thinking of her.

  She had heard nothing of him for two weeks. She had told Jacques to deny him, should Lord Randall come calling, so she could hardly blame the earl for that, but he continued to invade her thoughts. She had learned to keep him at bay during the waking hours by throwing herself into her work, but at night, when she had blown out her candle and was trying to sleep he would creep, nay stride, into her dreams and disturb her rest.

  ‘I thought you would be happy,’ remarked Bertrand, ‘I have stolen you away from your pupils for an hour, from your work. Mais, alas, I do not appear to have your attention.’